


No wealth, No ruin, No silver, No gold

by kirinz19



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirinz19/pseuds/kirinz19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the annual reaping for the Hunger Games, Stiles Stilinski is chosen as tribute from District 12. Scott McCall volunteers as second tribute in a desperate attempt to protect his friend. Meanwhile, in the wealthy District 2, Derek Hale, a dangerous professional, steps forth to represent his District, and he intends to win - right up to the moment when he meets Stiles.</p><p>The name of the fic was taken from the song "O, Death" by Jen Titus.</p><p>This fic was already up once, but then I deleted it, since I wasn't planning on finishing it. But hey, plans change.<br/>_________<br/>Currently on hiatus</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

Derek Hale has had a bad dream.  
He wakes, his head heavy, feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. He tries to recollect the scattering memories of the nightmare, but it’s all vague shapes and indistinct voices, screaming, calling for help. Derek turns his head to see the fancy electronic alarm clock – time, date and all - on the nightstand and smirks. Waking before dawn in cold sweat after a nightmare – you couldn’t think of a better beginning of the day of the reaping. Especially if you consider the fact that normally Derek Hale doesn’t dream at all.  
It’s five in the morning, and he still has two hours to rest. It’s useless, though, and Derek understands it. He always takes his time to fall asleep, from twenty minutes to an hour, sometimes more. So he might as well get up and prepare himself for the day.  
It is the same every day – alarm at seven, breakfast at seven-thirty, exercising from eight to ten, hand-to-hand fighting from ten to twelve, lunch from twelve to one o’clock, from one to four – practice with various weapons. After – free time. It is the same during week-ends, holidays, festivities – always. After eight years of being part of the Special Hunger Games Preparation Garrison it seems to Derek that he has entered a loop of time, and every day of his life is going to be just the same as every other. Even conversations with Isaac started repeating themselves – in a closed environment with strict rules topics for small talk run out fast.  
Isaac is a friend of Derek’s – or the closest thing to a friend Derek has - the atmosphere in the Special Garrison cannot be called friendly and amiable. Sometimes they talk. If they have a choice, they practice together. Derek is good at hand-to-hand fighting, Isaac does miracles with throwing knives and curved swords, they learn from each other and become stronger – “a mutually beneficial companionship” Isaac calls it. He’s right, Derek thinks.  
Isaac, being 18, is two years younger than Derek and still a long way from being allowed to volunteer as tribute. There are no official rules about it, but usually only trainees over 19 years old get selected. This years’ selection consists of three people. It means that all three can come forward to present District Two. Who actually gets to do it is decided between them the way they want. Derek remembers a year when it was decided by a fight. Only one survived. There should have been two.  
Every year each of the twelve Districts should supply two people aged from 12 to 22 - tributes - to participate in the Hunger Games. Twenty-four boys and girls should hunt and kill each other until only one survivor is left. He (or she) is the winner. Everything is broadcast live on TV. Derek has seen enough Games to know the generals.  
It is not all so simple. The first stage is being locked up in a small circular room with another participant (chosen randomly – it might even be your fellow tribute from the same District). To continue on the main arena (always a different place, different dangers, different skills required to survive) you have to kill your cell-mate (no arms, just your bare hands). Generally, only twelve players remain, but once in a couple of years two cell-mates form a team and manage to force their way out of the room – usually by help of physical strength, but there was once a guy who managed to cause a short circuit and made the doors open automatically.  
But, to Derek’s mind, the arena itself is the worst. You can never guess what has been prepared for the tributes this year. Also, it is not only other tributes that you have to fear, but also various traps set by the Designers.  
And today – today is the day of the reaping. Today two more young people are going to put their lives at stake for the amusement of the people of The Capital.  
The general procedure resembles a lottery – the names of all the people of the required age are written down on pieces of paper and put into a giant glass vase, and after the Proprietor (citizen of The Capital, responsible for the District’s tributes) pulls out two random pieces. The names on them are the names of future participants. It is possible to volunteer, though, and replace whichever of the chosen tributes (as long as he or she is not averse).  
In poor Districts, like the Twelfth, the Hunger Games are hated and feared. But here, in the wealthy District Two, being a tribute is considered an honor, and boys and girls from the richest families enter Special Schools and Garrisons to be trained to kill and, when the time comes, to fight in the Games.  
This is pretty much Derek’s story, too. Typical – a twelve-year-old boy from the rich Hale family, taken into a Special Skills School, at fifteen made his way to the most elite training establishment, practiced for five more years, and, with any luck, will be selected to volunteer next year. Nobody asked his opinion before sending him off to become a killer. The only thing his mother said (and more as a matter of consolation, at that) was: “Well, it’s not Anna who we’re going to sacrifice to The Capital, is it? That leaves you.” Anna is Derek’s sister. After joining the School he has only seen her twice.  
Here, in District Two, the choice of tributes is formalized. Every year a selection is made which consists of three to five people – all professionals, trained from an early age. Afterwards, any two of them should volunteer to be tributes. All attempts to break these rules are punished by death. Not officially, of course, but it’s that type of unwritten law which everyone knows, and knows better than to violate.  
Technically, for Derek, this day shouldn’t be different from any other – he is not in the selection this year, though the Garrison Chief had called him “promising”. So he should just get on with the daily routine. Derek sighs and gets out of bed. The floor is cold as fuck this morning.


	2. Part 2

Stiles opens his eyes, groans and sits up in bed. His gaze falls on the murky mirror on the wall. He makes a face at himself, then passes a hand over his eyes and says “Well, happy birthday, Mr. Stilinski”. It is Stiles’ eighteenth birthday, and the day of the reaping.  
Scott is already waiting when Stiles comes out of their shabby family house.   
“Happy birthday, man, congratulations, now you’re officially of age.”  
Stiles grimaces.  
“Yeah. Now getting me laid does not evoke legal prosecution. I can literally see the queue lining up. Let’s at least hope I won’t get the honor of being a tribute as a present.”  
“Oh, Stiles, there are thousands of people every year, what’s the chance of you being chosen?”  
“That’s what everyone thinks. And yet every year two people get lucky.”  
This is the problem with Scott - his firm belief that the reaping will never concern him and those close to him. Stiles had tried, but he could never really get rid of the constant fear that this time they will take Scott, or Allison, or himself. He wonders which attitude is better. Scott’s is definitely easier to live with.  
“Oh, by the way, dad said you can come over at five. Don’t expect anything super-cool in terms of food, but we’ll do our best.”  
Scott never knew his father, Stiles’ mother died when he was ten. Their parents helped each other out various times, and the boys pretty much grew up together. Same playground, later – the same school.  
“Oh, don‘t worry about that! I need to get some stuff at the market, ‘cause mom is set on cooking a “special dinner”. So get ready for another exotic dish! I just hope she won’t try the tartlets again…”  
Stiles chuckles. Last year Mrs. McCall decided to “try something new” and cooked what should have been tartlets with chicken terrine and salad. The result had a very specific taste. To put it mildly.  
Laughing, they made their way to the market. It was ten o’clock, and they still had about four hours until the reaping.  
It is not bad to live in District Twelve. Yes, they are not as rich as the first four Districts, and they have to either share or save to buy new clothes, kitchen utensils and things like that, and their houses are all old and quite small and creaky, but at least they are not starving, like the people of district Eleven, for example. Stiles heard they are forced to go hunt beyond the Border to feed themselves. The Capital tries to keep the Districts as isolated from each other as possible, but rumors find their way.  
District Twelve is the southernmost, has a mild climate, therefore it’s here that most of the plantations are situated. The rules are strict, theft is punished severely, but The Capital tends to leave a decent percent of the harvest to the inhabitants.  
It might not be the life Stiles would pick if he had a choice, but it is far from being the worst option. As long as the annual reaping passes without his family or friends being taken, it is safe to say that Stiles is satisfied.  
***  
You should look your best during the reaping. It is a rule. So Stiles gets out his best shirt, puts on his favorite beige trousers and his new shoes (had to save his allowance for quite a long time to buy those, but it’s nice to for once have footwear that lasts more than two months), reaches for a comb, but stops himself. He keeps forgetting that he had shaved his hair short.  
As he heads to the town square, he can’t help remembering that time when a boy from their school named Adrian was taken. He was only thirteen and was, of course, killed during the first stage of the Games. He had no chances against the professional from District One, a tough twenty-years-old boy.  
District Twelve hadn’t had but one winner, fifteen years ago, a gloomy man named Bobby Finstock who lived alone and never talked to anybody. Scott’s mom told them to never come near him. “The fact that he won in the Games should suffice as an explanation, why,” – she said.  
For the moment, this was the closest the Games ever came to affecting Stiles’ environment. Since he turned twelve, and a paper with his name was put into the huge glass vase, only children he didn’t know and had never seen were chosen. Except for this boy. Stiles was fifteen.  
He remembers returning home to a furious father. Usually on the day of the reaping his father had worn an expression of quiet resignation, but that day he was outraged.  
“This is just foolish! The boy is only thirteen! And he is tiny! Have you seen him?! TINY! What chances of surviving do they think he has?! What is even the aim of this? And the people, the people! Why hadn’t anyone volunteered, I wonder?”  
Stiles mistakenly took this for a question. “Well, he has no brothers or sisters, I guess, and who else would volunteer? I mean, he is a complete stranger. And you shouldn’t talk like that, you might have problems if the patrols hear you.”  
He still remembers the look his father gave him at that. Never before or after has he seen such pure contempt. But after a minute his dad’s features relaxed, now he seemed lost in thought, confused even.“Where have I gone wrong?” – he said slowly, then stood up and walked unsteadily to his bed. Only then Stiles had noticed the half-empty bottle of Meryl’s best hooch on the table.  
Meryl was an unpleasant old hag and secretly sold self-made alcohol. It was a mystery for Stiles how she managed to evade the patrols up to now.  
Somebody nudged Stiles, and he came back to the present to find Scott at his side.  
“Hey. You’re standing in the wrong group, guys from eighteen to twenty-two are over there.”  
“Oh. Yup. Sorry, lost my head in the clouds a bit. Was thinking of Adrian.” Scott frowns. He, too, remembers Adrian.  
“And, well, I’m not used to being eighteen yet,” – Stiles tries to lighten the atmosphere. He apparently fails. It’s hard to be cheery at the reaping.  
Meanwhile, it’s five minutes to two. Armed troops have already surrounded the children to prevent any attempts of escaping. They don’t check if everybody’s here. If the named person is not present, they will not need much time to find him. Every inhabitant of District Twelve is registered, and there’s pretty much nowhere to run.  
For the reaping, a platform had been installed in the far corner of the square so that everyone could see it. The vase is already there, filled with little rectangular papers folded in four, and Stiles can see the Proprietor of their District, a middle-aged woman ridiculously named Sandy Dumkins, making her way to pick out two of them.  
Sandy takes the mike and coughs delicately. The crowd gradually falls silent, and all heads turn to the platform.  
“It is now time to pick the two tributes who will represent District Twelve in the thirty-sixth Hunger Games!” – she declares happily, - “A high honor, a chance to leave your trace in history of this great country! An unique opportunity! So, are there any volunteers?”  
Same as every year, dead silence. No sound, no movement. After waiting for about twenty seconds, Sandy continues: “Well, then I will pick myself!” – and places her hand in the vase. After rummaging around for some time, she pulls out a piece of paper, same as every other, and unfolds it slowly.  
“And our first tribute is… Stilinski, Stiles!”  
At first moment Stiles doesn’t even realize what happened. He stands there, trying to understand whose name had been called and if he knows them.  
“Stiles Stilinski, could you please come forward!” – Sandy repeats loudly. This time, he hears it, hears his name, and it seems that his heart had stopped beating, because he can’t take a breath, and he is going to die, because there is no way he can win, he can’t kill anyone, he never held a weapon in his hands, and this is the end, he is already dead, and he is surprised that he appears to be walking slowly to the platform, and he hears someone else call his name, not Sandy, it’s probably Scott, don’t yell Scott, he thinks, the guards will beat you up, and here is the small set of steps, and here he is standing beside Sandy, and she shakes his hand, and asks him to say something, but all he can think of is that he is going to die, and he is not scared, no, this feeling is beyond fright, it is on the other side of fright, and the word death is all he can hear, coming from all sides, and even as Sandy starts to talk again, all he can hear is “death, death, death”.  
And then a voice sounds, a shaky scream.  
“A volunteer! A volunteer for second tribute!!”  
Sandy beams. “Well, this is unexpected! Why don’t you join me and Stiles, young man, and tell us your name.”  
Stiles looks towards the crowd to see Scott almost running to the platform.


	3. Part 3

This year three professionals were selected: Boyd, a huge guy, has enough muscular power to be dangerous without any weapons whatsoever; Erica – good with knives and devious; and Matt – here, Derek is not sure. As far as he knows, Matt appears to be mediocre at everything. But during the last few months before the reaping they are all surveyed closely – perhaps the chiefs noticed something about him that others didn’t.  
The selected keep to themselves, often discuss something in low tones, and while Boyd and Erica redouble their efforts at training, Matt seems to be slacking more than ever. Derek’s guess is that he got sieved out. Seems fair.  
Meanwhile, the hour of the reaping is drawing close. It starts at two, so today, exceptionally, they are going to have one hour of free time after lunch to prepare themselves and gather in the main court.  
Isaac is late for lunch. When he enters, he looks unusually agitated, mumbles an apology to the supervisor, grabs a tray and flops himself at Derek’s side. “I probably shouldn’t tell you who’s so not going to the Games,” – he says quietly. Derek nods. Isaac continues. “Well, I’ve heard that he’s furious about it and he went to the chief’s office. They say he thinks Boyd should get thrown out and that he actually said that he is too stupid to participate. To the chief, man!”  
Derek sighs. “It’s not like you to listen to gossip. Even if it is true, he will probably get shot accidentally and that will be the end of it.”  
“It’s no gossip! Danny has had an audience with the chief today and he says that just as he was opening the door, Matt came out of nowhere, pushed him aside, stormed in and started yelling.”  
Derek starts to get irritated. “What’s your business in this? If he is asking for a bullet to the head, you might pretty much let him do it. Here it’s every man for himself, always has been. So if you are not secretly in love with Matt, leave it all be and mind your own business. I’m gonna get ready for the reaping now.”  
Derek gets up and walks out of the dining hall. He doesn’t see Isaac blush.  
***  
They are all standing in the main court, gathered in groups according to age. Isaac is still considered Junior, so he is on the other side of the paved area, far away from Derek.  
The vase stands proudly in the center of a platform installed here so that everyone will be able to see the tributes. It is a decoration, no one has used the thing for years. Stanley Reily, the Proprietor, stands beside it, smiling. After a few minutes he takes a step forward and starts speaking.  
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the reaping! Today we shall choose two tributes, two true fighters, who will have the high honor to do battle in the Thirty-Sixth Hunger Games in the proud name of District Two. Do not hesitate or fear! For a warrior, death is no tragedy! ”  
The reproducers make his voice boom across the court. Stanley likes pathos. He can go on for hours, but today he is unusually brief.  
“I bless you all! Let the reaping be started! Are there any volunteers?”  
Derek doesn’t even listen, lost in his own thoughts, just waits calmly for Boyd’s and Erica’s voices to sound across the crowd. But there’s silence. It grows gradually, stretching way too far for a theatrical pause. After a minute, it becomes obvious that they are either not there or do not intend to come forward. Derek turns his head around. No, there they are – but they stand silently, staring at their feet with set expressions on their faces, ignoring persistent nudges and general confusion. Matt is nowhere to be seen, but perhaps he is sulking in the back lines. Derek notices the supervisors making their way towards Boyd and Erica, and he wants to warn them to stop fooling around –  
But then Stanley speaks again. He has paled, and his pleasant voice is shaking.  
“Well, th-then I will have to pick myself,” – he declares and turns uncertainly to the vase. According to the rules, the list of names should be revised every year – those of people older than 22 should be withdrawn, and new names of children who’ve turned twelve should be added; but Derek is not sure if anyone had done it. Meanwhile, Stanley abruptly turns back to the crowd; his voice sounds hysterical.  
“I will ask this one more time – ARE THERE ANY VOLUNTEERS?”  
Derek turns to where Boyd and Erica were standing, but they are not there – the guards apparently have taken them to the chiefs.  
And in a daze, Derek raises his hand. As Stanley’s eyes fall on him, as heads start to turn his way, he feels as if he’s very, very drunk. For a moment he sees himself as a hero, a great warrior, famed, respected and feared. But it all fades away as Stanley booms:  
“Aaaand AT LAST we have our first tribute! On the stage, young man, so we can all see you and celebrate your courage!”  
And as Derek walks forward all he can see is blood, vague shapes. And voices, indistinct voices, screaming, calling for help.  
Stanley grabs his hand, shakes it for what seems like a couple of minutes, congratulates him extensively, then invites to say a few words “to his fellow trainees”. Derek mumbles something about honor, possibilities and victory and steps hurriedly back. The Proprietor continues.  
“Only one tribute left! Fame, wealth, respect – think about it! So, are there any volunteers?!”  
For a second, there is no movement, and then a hand rises, slowly, almost hesitantly.  
“Aaaand WE HAVE OUR LAST TRIBUTE! Congratulations! Come forward, show us your face!”  
Derek knows before he sees Isaac’s stooping figure. The moment he raised his own hand, he had known who was going to be the second tribute.  
Stanley’s beaming. He is so overtaken by emotions that he even awkwardly hugs Isaac, offers him the mike, but Isaac refuses politely and goes to stand beside Derek.  
As their Proprietor bursts into another speech, they stand there side by side, and now Derek understands that there is no honor in this, and that every single tribute ever was scared – perhaps deep inside, disguising it, hiding, making themselves believe Stanley’s words.  
“What do you think you’re doing?” – he hisses at Isaac.  
“Well, since everyone today is set on breaking the rules, I decided to have my bit of fun.”  
“Do you understand I will have to kill you?”  
He hears the smile in Isaac’s voice: “Why so?”  
Derek’s mouth is dry, his head spins, but he wouldn’t have volunteered if he had had even a shade of a doubt. “Because I will win.”  
Isaac gives a tight little laugh.  
“What a coincidence. I was planning that, too.”


	4. Part 4

Scott stands beside Stiles on the platform, stiff and silent. Stiles is dumbfounded, he feels small and vulnerable under the eyes of the crowd, and it seems as if every single person judges him – a boy so weak that his friend had to put himself between him and certain death.  
There was no applause, not once. When Scott stumbled awkwardly upstairs and onstage, and Sandy, her eyes wide, shook his hand and congratulated him, when he went to stand with Stiles, when the Proprietor started her ending speech, all the time people just stood and stared, and as Sandy finishes babbling into the microphone, for a moment, for one tiny moment before guards come to take them away, you can imagine that you are simply watching the reaping on TV and somebody turned off the sound, because there is absolutely no sound, not one.  
They are taken into the City Hall and locked up in different rooms. Now, it is time for the visitors to come – last chance for the tributes to say good-bye to their family and friends. Stiles won’t see Scott until they are ready to leave for The Capital.  
Stiles’ first guest is his father. It is impossible to discern any emotion judging by the expression of his face. He looks… normal.   
He comes in, closes the door, sits on the sofa opposite Stiles and stays there, staring at his son, saying nothing.  
Stiles tries to break the silence.  
“Well… I guess, happy birthday to me, then,” – he says and attempts a laugh, but it comes out way too unnatural, and for god-knows-which time Stiles blames himself for not being able to keep his mouth shut.  
Then his father starts to speak. His voice is low, but not quiet or unsteady.  
“Listen, son. Both you and me understand that you will probably die at some point during those hell’s Games. It is hard to kill a man as it is, and it is still harder if you’ve never done it before. And if you take a look at those professionals from the first Districts, it seems that you don’t stand a chance.”  
Stiles knew this, of course, it had been through his head a thousand times since his name was called out, but to hear it said out loud like that made the bleak perspective somehow more real and more close.  
“But… Yes, there is a but, don’t look at me like that. But it is no reason to stop fighting. Your chances may be quite bad, but you are not yet dead. Not now. You still have time. There will be training when you arrive, only two months, so try to identify what you are best at as fast as you can – and train, train, train. If not fighting, then make your best with the survival skills. Also, Bobby Finstock will be your mentor – and he is good, if you manage to make him do his job, and Stiles, Stiles, listen – keep an eye on Scott and don’t let him do anything foolish.”  
“You mean to say – don’t let him die for you.”  
His father pauses. Then speaks again. “Now I’m getting to the most difficult part. Firstly, Stiles, it is not an easy thing to live through – watch your only son go to the slaughterhouse. I know you are scared, but believe me, compared to what I am feeling now it is nothing. I’m not going to talk poetry about hearts being ripped to pieces and all that, because there are no words dreadful enough in this language to explain, and if you will ever start pitying yourself, just remember me and Scott’s mother. This brings us to the second point – you are now indebted to Scott for life. He chose to become a tribute to protect you, and that, Stiles, makes a priceless gift – a friend who will support you until the end, even when you’re all out there. ”  
Stiles notices the little pause before the last two words. His father deliberately didn’t use “arena”.  
“Yes, I understand. Honestly, I don’t know what to say to him now. Like, I can’t just walk in and be like “Hey dude, how’s it going, by the way, good job on throwing your life to seven hells for my sake today, it’s appreciated!”, can I?”  
His dad smiles. “I think he knows. Actually, I think the fact that he knows is one of the reasons he had done it in the first place.”  
The guard opens the door. “Time’s up.”  
“Oh, for god’s sake, give us a minute!” – Stiles cries.  
The guard just repeats ”Time’s up,” and advances towards them. Stiles’ father raises his hand to show that he is coming, turns to his son, pulls him in a tight hug, and, just before going out, places something in his palm. “I wanted to accompany it with a pretentious speech, but not enough time, as you see,” – he says.  
Stiles looks down to find a little bronze star with the word “Sheriff” written across it. The sheriff’s badge.  
Sheriffs were leaders of the guards units called the police before the Grand War, a long, long time ago, when the was no Capital, no Districts, no Hunger Games. His father used to tell him bedtime stories about them, how they were strong and clever and how they always caught the criminal.  
Stiles meets his father’s eyes.  
“I hope you will like it,” – adds Mr. Stilinski as the door shuts, separating them.  
Stiles sits down and starts crying.  
***  
And that is how Mrs. McCall finds him. She is his second visitor. When he looks up, she stands by the door looking lost, her eyes red, too.  
“I’m so sorry,” – he says, his voice thick.   
She smiles. “Scott told me that you would start with that. He told me not to blame you – not that I was going to, of course, but, more importantly, he asked me to tell you to not blame yourself.”  
“I don’t think I can help it.”  
“Stiles -” she sighs and lowers her eyes, - “Stiles, my son did this… And…” – she suppresses a sob, - “I don’t know even how to start telling how I feel about it, but it is not why I am here. Stiles,” – she pauses, as if uncertain, but continues, - “I am not asking for any guarantees, I am not asking you to give everything in order to save him, I’m just…”  
She is silent for a long time, and evidently she can’t bare looking at him. Then she stands up abruptly, stays motionless for a few seconds, as if bracing herself, then raises her head to meet his eyes for one last time.  
“Just… just keep an eye on him, please?”  
She waits for Stiles to nod, then leaves the room, almost running.  
***  
Stiles is not expecting any more visitors, but he gets one. It is Allison Argent, a girl from their school and Scott’s girlfriend. When she enters, she is pale, but her face is set, and she goes to sit right beside him, ignoring, as is her habit, all notions of personal space. They sit in silence for some time.  
“No one blames you, you know. Not me, not Scott’s mom, not your father or Scott himself for that matter. It was Scott’s decision.”  
“I know. It’s the believing part that I’m having trouble with.”  
“Look, I know that Scott’s mom and with all probability your dad, too, told you to protect Scott or at least not to let him die so that you could live. I am going to tell you the opposite. Scott has made a great sacrifice for you and trying to push it away is the stupidest thing you can do. Because it will probably get you both killed, if not for any other reason.”  
Stiles stares at her.  
“How can you say that? He is your boyfriend, how can you accept his death so easily?”  
Allison gives a short laugh and smiles at Stiles. It’s a sad but genuine smile.  
“I love him, yes. But I lost Scott the moment Sandy’s hand found the paper with your name on it in the fucking jar,” – she sees Stiles’ face change and continues hurriedly – “No, no, I’m not blaming you, I said that, it’s just… I see it as an accident. Yes. An accident in the woods, like, you know, when people get killed by wild animals. Nobody’s fault, just an unfortunate coincidence. Same here. It’s just that it was inevitable the moment you were named tribute, that’s all. ”  
The silence is uncomfortable. Stiles understands that she is really trying to convince him, and perhaps it’s true that no one blames him, but the feeling lingers, and they both can feel that. He tries to make it better by saying “The only comfort I can provide you with is that I will probably die on the way, too,” but it comes out harsher than he expected and Allison shudders at his words. For a few minutes, silence reigns again.   
Then she glances at her wristwatch.  
“OK, time’s nearly out, so come here, I’ll give you a hug.”  
They hug, she whispers “It will be all right” into his ear, and they break apart just as the guard opens the door to take her away.  
Allison Argent is the last visitor, and as her waving figure disappears behind the door, Stiles doesn’t bother to wonder if he will ever see any of them again.


	5. Part 5

Derek sits in a grand, generously furnished room and stares absent-mindedly at the TV (LCD, HD and all). There, he can see the chosen tributes of other Districts. Here are the tributes of District One – professionals, too – a rather plump blondish girl, accompanied by a serious –looking tough guy (Jackson’s his name, Derek had memorized it); here’s himself and Isaac; here are two twin girls who volunteered from District Three – they should have some aces up their sleeves, too, or else what’s the point. Two boys from District Four – both chosen from the name jar, none looking too happy about it; also two boys from District Five, a boy and a girl from District Six… Derek’s head starts to ache. He closes his eyes tightly, rubs the eyelids with his hands. The faces of other tributes swirl in his head, he can’t even remember them all and yet some of them will probably die by his hand. Here’s a girl from District Ten, she cannot be more the fourteen, and she is so small and of course she had never killed anyone and she won’t, and she will die, too. And here are two boys from District Twelve, one chosen and one volunteer, both pale and scared. But one of their faces attracts Derek’s attention. While his fellow tribute appears to be lost, this boy’s expression is grim, but set. And he looks dangerous. Dangerous in a way of a person who has nothing to lose. From the indistinct babble of the Proprietor Derek catches a name – Scott McCall.  
Derek’s intuition screams at this name. Scott McCall may become a problem, Scott McCall is a threat, Scott McCall may win. Derek shakes his head at this and hopes somebody else will kill this Scott off before he meets him on the arena.  
Formally, the tributes are offered this time to say good-bye to their friends and families, but “formally” is the key word here. None of the tributes of District Two are allowed to see any relatives or acquaintances. But Derek, however, has a visitor.  
It is the Garrison Chief, Adrian Harris. Derek has never heard of him visiting tributes, he guesses he should consider himself honored, but he can’t really live up to the feeling.  
The Chief smiles at him.  
“Mr. Hale. I think it is needless to say that today you have shown great courage and true spirit of the Garrison, despite the… unusual circumstances.”  
“I consider it my duty, sir.”  
“Very good, very good. But I hope that you understand, Mr. Hale, that raising your hand is not enough.”  
There is a pause; Derek nods.  
“When you arrive in The Capital, they will dress you up in fancy clothes, there will be many parties, shows… Amidst it all, it is easy to forget why you have been brought there in the first place. As a representant of District Two, Mr. Hale, it your duty is not only to dance around in a suit, but to fight, to fight like you’ve never fought before. And it is still not enough. You have to win. To win in the Games, Mr. Hale, should be your number one priority.”  
Derek nods again.  
“One more thing, Mr. Hale. As you have probably understood by now, the trainees selected this year have violated the rules, and will be punished appropriately. There is, however, a startling likeliness to Miss Reyes’ and Mr. Milton’s reasoning as to why they haven’t come forward. They both say, quote, “I have a right to choose, and I do not want to die for the amusement of the citizens of The Capital”. I may not be precise, but this is the idea.”  
Derek listens closely. This is something new.   
“I think you will agree that the fact that two people, otherwise so different from each other, give all but identical explanations for their misbehavior may arise suspicions. Hmm… To put it shortly, my colleagues and I have reasons to believe that the idea had been planted into the heads of our best trainees. And that upsets me, Mr. Hale. Very much.”  
Derek sits silently, staring at the floor. Does the Chief think that he did something to clear his way to the tribute seat? But that is impossible, he had never even talked to Boyd and Erica, and they were surveyed, they should know he is innocent… And if they don’t? Is he going to get shot accidentally, like the other “aggressors”?  
“I am now going to ask you, Mr. Hale, a question considering your awareness of the whereabouts of Mr. Matthew Daehler.”  
It takes a moment for Derek to realize that the Chief is talking about Matt. But Matt… Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen him since yesterday. Isaac had talked about him, but no one, except Danny perhaps, had seen him today. But why is he asking about Matt? What does Matt have to do with all this?  
”No, sir. I… I haven’t seen Mr. Daehler since yesterday. He was training with the others, sir.”  
Derek doesn’t know why he has put in this last detail, because it is an outright lie – yes, yesterday Matt was present at the training, but all he did was sit on the bench, he even ignored the Supervisors.  
The Chief looks at him thoughtfully.  
“And have you talked to Mr. Daehler – yesterday or ever before?”  
“No, sir, we never talked.”  
“Did you tell anyone that you wanted to become a tribute?”  
“No, sir, I didn’t know myself, sir. I mean… It was a spontaneous decision. Sir.”  
At this, the Chief looks mildly surprised.  
“Are you sure you sincerely wish to participate, Mr. Hale? I hope I do not need to remind you that this is no children’s game?”  
“Yes, sir, I understand the consequences, and I am sure, sir.”  
For some time, the Chief is silent. Afterwards, he smiles again.  
“Well then, let me not take up any more of your time. And let the odds be ever in your favor, Mr. Hale.”  
“Thank you, sir.”  
As the Chief walks to the door, Derek raises his head.  
“May I ask a question, sir?”  
Adrian Harris, the youngest Harrison Chief in the last eighty years, turns around. Looking at his pleasant, bespectacled face, it is hard to guess his actual occupation, harder still to imagine he had once won his own Games.  
“I’ve asked you a great deal of questions, Derek, it only seems fair that you can ask me one yourself.”  
The sudden “Derek” is confusing.  
“Sir… have you already seen Isaac?”  
“You mean Mr. Lahey? No, I haven’t.”  
Derek’s mouth is dry, but he continues.  
“And… Will you be seeing him, sir?”  
The Chief gives him another smile.  
“You know, Derek, I have observed the trainees of this Garrison for some years, and when I think of them, I like to compare them to a pack of wolves. There is a leader, and there is the rest of the pack. Sometimes, there are several packs – they either learn to coexist, or they fight.”  
Derek stares at him.  
“…And Derek, I think we both know that what Mr. Lahey did today was simply follow the leader of the pack.”  
The Chief rewards Derek with yet another smile, all but charming, and leaves the room before the latter can think of anything to say.


	6. Part 6

Allison is last, afterwards Sandy flutters in to take him and Scott to the train that will carry them to The Capital. As they walk she chatters about how they don’t need to pack because there will be nice things already waiting for them on board and about how beautiful is The Capital and how popular they will be because they are such good friends.  
Scott walks at Stiles’ side, face drawn, pace even. Since the reaping they haven’t said a word to each other. Stiles can’t help but wonder what Scott’s mother had said to her son during their farewells. For all the “I-don’t-blame-you” talks in the world, he cannot make himself believe Mrs. McCall would allow Scott to throw his life away. She must have told him to do his best and to survive. She must have.  
Because if she didn’t –  
“Allison didn’t cry, you know.”  
Startled, Stiles makes an incomprehensible noise, something between a sob and a sneeze, and turns to his friend.  
“Sorry?”  
“Well, mom cried, of course, and even your dad couldn’t hold back a tear, but Allison didn’t cry. She hugged me and told me I was brave and that she’ll remember me. She told me that this is probably the last time we meet.”  
Stiles felt a lump in his throat. Right now, he couldn’t utter a word if his life depended on it. Scott continued, with a small miserable laugh.  
“Your dad said thank you a million times, I think. I mean, did he really expect that I would just stand and watch? I would have replaced you, but then someone else would be chosen in my place, and… It could be a girl, I thought, or a small child, somebody who’s twelve. What chances would they have? So… here we are.”  
“I’m so sorry.”  
Oh, brilliant, Mr. Stilinski. One could think you’ve forgotten all the other words except these four. But Scott turned to him, and there was no regret or anger in his eyes.  
“Oh, please, don’t, not you. Frankly, I’ve hoped that at least you would have the sense not to view it as some insane sacrifice. It was my choice. No one forced me, no one held my hand up, I did it myself, I knew the consequences. And first of all, nothing has happened yet worth thanking me for, or apologizing for.”  
They arrived at the train. To his surprise, Stiles saw a huge crowd, clearly here to see them off, but as silent as during the reaping. Stiles couldn’t make out any familiar faces, and was secretly glad for it.  
They never stopped. Sandy all but pushed them inside the carriage, showed them their compartments – each tribute got his own, and with a curt “We’ll be waiting for you in the dining room” fluttered away.  
Once left alone, Stiles slumped on the narrow bed in his small and crowded compartment and just lay there for some time. Everything was happening as if in a dream – a nightmare, to be more precise. After studying the various objects – mostly clothes – presumably offered for him to wear, and, if Sandy could be believed, to keep, he closed his eyes and fell into a troubled slumber.  
It felt like minutes, but indeed Stiles couldn’t say how much time had passed since he closed his eyes. Today, hours felt like minutes and minutes felt like hours.  
Stiles vaguely remembered something about the dining room. It was high time he got up, got dressed and got to wherever this dining room was.  
The carriage lurched. As if it had been waiting for Stiles to wake up, the train was now leaving District 12. Stiles moved to the window to see that the crowd was still there. And as they started moving, hands went up. The people were waving.  
Stiles gets an unsettling feeling of this situation being strangely symbolic – he had never known anyone to be especially close with him, or fond of him, except his family, Scott and Allison, but here they were, now – waving him off to the Capital, a journey that with all probability was going to become his last.  
But then again, don't flatter yourself, he said to himself. With all probability they are honoring Scott.  
The train was a small one, three small carriages in all, two of which were in effect the tributes' compartments, with personal bathrooms and even a small bar. The third was the “dining room” Sandy was talking about, a large, airy thing made to feel like some kind of art-nouveau hotel rather than something that could fit inside a train.  
All three of them were there, waiting for him – Scott, as indifferent as ever, Sandy, who obviously believed that he was unacceptably late, and gave him a very sour look as he was making his way around the table, - and Bobby Finstock.  
The fear, the grief, the final meetings have emotionally exhausted Stiles to the extent that he had completely forgotten that all tributes had a mentor, someone from their own District who had won in the Games. With lack of any alternative, theirs was Bobby Finstock, the only living survivor of the Hunger Games from District 12.  
Stiles was too young to remember the Games, but his father told him that Finstok's strategy “wasn't pretty”. He told him that he barely lived himself, being too injured after his last battle with the only other surviving tribute, some professional from one of the first four Districts.  
“In the end, they both lost their weapons and fought like animals, using their arms and legs and teeth,” - his father used to say. Even though there was recorded footage of every Hunger Games, Stiles never dared to watch this particular one.  
Right now, Bobby Finstock was slumped in his chair, apparently very interested in something on his knees. Since Sandy is sitting on one side of Scott, Stiles (who doesn't even consider positioning himself too far from his friend) is forced to sit down on the other side, between Scott and Finstock.  
For a while, they eat in silence. Sandy courageously tries to evoke some conversation, but no one really seems into it. Suddenly, Scott speaks, too loudly and too calmly for his words to sound natural.  
“So, Stiles, what are you planning to focus on during our training?”  
Stiles is cought by surprise, and only manages to mumble something about surviving skills.  
“And... you know, when the borders were not so tight, my father used to go hunting sometimes, so I thought... Maybe archery.”  
Finstock snickers, making Stiles blush violently in a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment; Scott is still indifferent, showing neither support nor denial of Stiles' idea.  
Not even bothering to look at Sandy, Stiles retorts shakily.  
“Wh-what are you laughing at, sir? - how weird it was, saying “sir” to this wretched man, but Stiles was brought up to respect older people, - You know better than anyone that we, to put it mildly, didn't plan on participating in these games! So, instead of just sitting there and making fun of us, you could consider giving us some... advice...” - his voice trailed treacherously towards the end, the whole tirade losing a little bit of its effect.   
Finstock raises his head, and Stiles feels the smell and understands he’s dead drunk, but it’s too late.  
“You wanna advice?” – he half-coughs, - “stay alive is the best fuckin’ advice I may give you.”


	7. Part 7

Derek does not see Isaac until they are on the train heading for the Capital, and even then Stanley gently but firmly guides them to separate compartments and offers a grand variety of activities, all of which, it so happens, are avilable without experiencing necessity to leave this small personal space they have been provided. Derek knows his District too well to understand that this is an order to stay put. One of them is going to die in the following three months – and yet they are still expected to follow strict discipline of the Garrison. They are taking it with them to the Capital.  
After his talk with Adrian Harris Derek half-expected him to become their mentor, but apparently they were not that special – they were assigned Peter Hale, Derek's namesake and a well-known Champion, who won his Games with a precisely balanced combination of cunningness and blunt force. He had accompanied a fair number of District Two tributes to the Capital, and managed to bring quite a few back.  
They are finally re-united at the traditional dinner aboard, their only one – while other tributes had from two to four days of travel ahead of them, Districts One, Two, and Three were only a day's worth of travel away from the Capital. Not that anyone apart from the tributes and high government officials had got to verify this information, though.  
Presumably, Derek understands, they are here to receive instructions – it is not considered a good thing in their District to allow tributes to mingle with each other too much – they may be forced to fight each other on the arena, and it was general belief that the less personal they get, the better.  
And yet he still sits beside Isaac, closer than Peter Hale and Stanley are sitting, childishly defining their rules, their power to control him.  
Hale gives him an indecipherable look, then takes a deep breath and starts talking.  
“Normally, we wouldn't have this conversation, because, if this was a normal situation, I would know that I'm going to work with prepared people who know where they are going and how it all works. As it is, what I've got this year are two kids not a lot better than some terrified cannon fodder from District Twelve.”  
Isaac shows no obvious reaction to the insult, but Derek can hear his breath become slow and labored, as always when he is extremely annoyed or angry.  
“So, let me offer you a quick introduction to the Hunger Games. First of all, I know that most of you think, are taught to think that it is all about fighting and killing and staying alive for as long as you can. I would like to draw your attention to the staying alive part. Let's not forget that the Games, if stripped of all the pathos and philosophical context, are, ultimately, a TV show, in other words, something to entertain the audience. And what concerns the Designers more than anything is the interest of their audience, because as long as the audience is interested, the money keeps flowing.”  
Derek had all his life heard that the Hunger games were the Capital's way of punishing the rebellion of the Districts, a way of reminding them that no one is safe unless we all listen and submit to the will of the Capital. Which always means well, of course. Not that he didn't know that its citizens, not participating in the Games themselves, viewed them as an exquisite form of entertainment. But hearing all this, in Peter Hale's flat unemotional voice, was unsettling.  
“These are the thirty-sixth Games, as you, I hope, know. Do you think that watching people simply kill each other every year would hold the audience's attention?”  
“Simply kill each other? That's what you call it?” - Isaac interrupts in a strange, broken voice, and for a moment Derek is scared that he is crying; but when he turns to look at him, Isaac's eyes are dry and flaring with emotion.  
“Mister Lahey, much as I admire your passion on the subject, do please allow me to finish,” - Peter Hale, if at all possible, speaks even lower, but somehow his voice sounds across the carriage and makes Stanley shiver.  
Isaac sits back, but Hale, eyebrows raised, seems to indeed wait for his permission. After a short pause, Isaac gives a curt nod, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he does so.  
“So, as I was saying, watching the same thing thirty-six times in a row will make the Designers lose even their most devoted viewers. So, to keep the interest going, everything becomes complicated. You have seen different arenas, various traps and obstacles. But there is also a lot going on behind the scenes. I am talking about betting and sponsoring.”  
Both Derek and Isaac look blank.  
“This is where most of the money comes from. You can place your bet on any tribute you deem has most chances to win, and if he or she does, you get your money. The earlier during the Games you make your choice, the more money you end up with if your choice was correct. A simple system. But that's not all. Wealthy viewers can, in very limited ways, help their favorites to win – or to stay alive a bit longer. That is sponsoring. And that is where I will be doing most of my job.”  
Hale pauses here, looking at them as if expecting something, but both tributes are still mute. Looking slightly annoyed, he continues.  
“Sponsors can send various objects to their protégées on the arena – food, water, medicine, even weapons – those that are allowed, of course. Logically, all this costs tens of times more than it otherwise would, and the number of times a certain sponsor can assist a certain tribute is limited. Most sponsors that are worth mentioning also bet, so they usually make their choices early on – in Pair Battles. So may I point out that during this period it is incredibly, vitally important that both of you do your best. If you fail to attract any significant attention, this is where I step in. I chat with sponsors, offer them a glass of wine or two, and as casually as I can coax them into helping you out in a tight spot. And you will end up in a tight spot, sooner or later – this year I'm more sure of it than ever. Makes sense so far?”  
Derek nods, and his mind is racing. Not as simple as “kill-and-survive”, then. Not only will he have to fight for his life (as if it isn't enough), but he will have to impress, make himself look good and hope that some moneybag in the Capital will consider him interesting enough to spend a few of his many thousands on keeping him alive a bit longer.  
Derek can almost feel Isaac thinking the same thing, but he appears more angered by the new developments. Derek hopes he won't burst out or do something rash – Hale will not approve of this, and they need Hale on their side.  
And, Derek realizes, it is in his best interest to keep Hale pleased. Because seeking sponsors for one tribute is a lot easier than for two.  
“Well, you probably need to think it over. I will answer your questions, if you will have any, of course, after we arrive in the Capital. You, I believe, have already been instructed about wearing uniform – it is a symbolic tradition of our District, and I will be glad to see it on both of you when we exit the train. Now, return to your compartments, please!” - the last words are said in a booming, commanding voice, accompanied by Hale clapping his hands, an unpleasant loud noise ringing of finality and death.


	8. Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to pause this work for a few weeks, but now I am once again on it, and hopefully part 9 will be up soon.  
> Also, I currently have very limited Internet access, I see all the comments and I appreciate them greatly, but I will not be able to answer them for a while. Sorry~~

Hours after their dinner exchange with Finstock, Stiles is still shaken. He sits in his compartment, slumped against the window, and thinks about how he is supposed to live through three more days of travel, three more days of waiting.  
At first, he thought it a blessing, having four days between himself and the Capital. He thought he would have time to collect his thoughts, sort everything out with Scott, maybe even come up with something like a strategy (though he couldn't see any way of getting out of Pair Battles alive, unless he was paired with Scott). But he only ends up with perpetual, thoughtless state of nervousness, wishing it would all just end.  
Stiles feels like crying.  
“Mind?” - Scott's head is sticking throught the compartment entrance.  
“Sure, sure, come in,” - Stiles answeres hastily, collecting himself and, not really realising it, preparing for another unpleasant conversation.  
Scott throws himself down next to Stiles, and for a while they just sit, silent, listening to the sounds of the moving train, bringing them ever closer to the Capital.  
“Don't listen to Finstock,” - Scott says at last, - “He was quite a dick even when he wasn't drinking, and now... Well, you've seen him. Pathetic. Fat lot of good that twat is going to do us as a mentor,” - they sat in silence for a while, then Scott continued.  
“They can send us things, you know – people from the Capital. Sandy told me after you left. If they like us, and want us to win, they can send us stuff, right to the arena. Like, food, meds, you know, things that are difficult to find. It's expensive, though. Sandy said that's what the mentor should be doing – searching for sponsors. But...” - he makes a dismissive motion with his hand, indicating Finstock, and grimaces - “We, probably, should prepare to do without help.”  
Stiles lets this information sink in. Silence stretches.  
“Shit,” - he finally utters.  
Scott giggles.  
And then they are both laughing, and Stiles doesn't care if it's half-hysterical, because it's the best he has felt in the last twenty-four hours, and he sincerely wishes this moment to last forever, but it can't, and soon it's over.  
Afterwards, still giggling dizzily, Stiles continues:  
“Seriously, Scott, look at us. It would take quite an effort even for someone lots more qualified than Bobby Finstock to convince some Capital peacock to spend his money on two losers from District Twelve.”  
Scott shrugs.  
“By the way, you actually want to try archery?”  
“Yeah, why not?” - Stiles retorts defensively. He understands himself how pathetic it must have sounded, him not really being the athletic kind of person. Archery, seriously. Besides, there are still Pair Battles, with no weapons or help – no use thinking a lot about plans beyond that.  
“I mean, you will have to shoot at people.”  
The words make Stiles shudder. He wants to say that, to even give Scott a chance to save him, he will have to kill, more than that – he will have to kill with his bare hands. He wants to say that he understands perfectly the implications, he wants to express how he feels, but it is too much for him, he tries to, but he cannot speak, and he reaches to squeeze Scott's shoulder, hoping to convey what has been left unsaid. Scott does not look at him, but nods.  
“Promise me something,” - the words are out before Stiles can stop them. Scott turns to face him, - “If I die...” - he sees Scott open his mouth, to object, no doubt, and raises his hand to silence him, - “If I die, do your best, get as far as you can, and, if you can make it, win. Don't let them break you. You are strong, I believe you can do it. If I die, do your best to win, Scott.”  
After a few moments, he recieves a solemn nod. In the circumstances, Stiles does not ask for more.  
They sit, huddled together, each one making silent vows that niether of them will be able to keep.  
***  
On the third day Finstock barged in Stiles' compartment, immediately making himself at home, and acting as if Stiles himself was currently trespassing on his personal territory. It was barely ten in the morning, but he was already smelling faintly of alcohol.  
“You haven't heard lots of important stuff your more patient friend was clever enough to listen to.”  
Stiles turns his back to him, demonstrating his annoyance. In the small compartment, part of the effect is lost.  
“My patient friend was patient enough to tell me some of the details,” - and it was not you who let on the information, he meant to add, but stopped himself – this was, after all, the man who was supposed to be more or less responsible for their lives.  
“Yes, but has he told you the the most intriguing part?” - the mocking in Finstock's voice made Stiles want to hit him. The impulse was stranger still given the fact that Stiles was unaggressive by nature.  
“I might be able to answer your question if you will kindly inform me which part you consider the most intriguing,” - he forced his voice to sound calm and even.  
“He haven't, then,” - Finstock said smugly, - “Well, then I'll have to do it, I guess. He should have told you about sponsors.”  
Stiles nodded slowly.  
“Well, I can tell you from experience that sponsorship is an exspensive hobby. Some shitty pills that normally cost a few dollars will rise to a few thousand if you want to send them to someone on the arena. Better meds cost tens, hundreds of thousands, weapons cost millions. It is hard to find a sponsor for a non-professional tribute, more so for two.”  
And then it dawned on him. The mentor cannot support two tributes – it's impossible, too many sposors to woo into spending too much money, too many tributes, in their case – too many better tributes. It means the mentor will have to choose one tribute he will support. Stiles felt his body go cold. Why haven't Scott told him?  
“I have seen the Reaping, boy, and I know how both of you ended up here. And here's what I'll tell you – I will support you – given you'll live through the Pair Battles, which I doubt, - but that's not because I like you, or I see something in you that tells me you're a potential winner. Your friend offered up his life for you, and I see that he will keep to this strategy until the end. I know we will come to nothing if I work to save him. But we might, we just might arrive somewhere if he and I work together to save you.”  
Stiles turned around to face him. He could not quite describe his feelings, even to himself – a mixture of confusion, terror, disgust, gratefulness, and something else.  
“I did not ask for this,” - was all he managed to croak. Finstock smiled wryly at him.  
“No one in their right mind would ever ask for this. But here you are. And it's high time you started doing something about it. Making a right first impression on the citizens of the Capital might be a good start.”  
He stood up, swaying slightly, just drunk enough for the natural movement of the train to keep him off balance, and, making a slow, shaky progress, left.  
***  
“...Uniforms?” - Scott did not hide his confusion. They were sitting in his compartment, Stiles in his enthusiastic fit having thrown a bunch of clothes on the floor to make room for himself.  
“Do you remember previous Games? Professionals always arrive in matching uniforms. I thought, maybe, if we wear uniforms, too, when we get off the train, we might make a better... impression...” - Stiles' voice faded away. This sounded a lot better in his head.  
“Okay...” - Scott said slowly, - “But where do you want to find matching uniforms? We are, like, eight hours away from the Capital.”  
“Well, we are not going to find exactly the same clothes, I guess,” - Stiles waved his hand at the pile on the floor, - “But, if we go for something simple, like white shirts and dark trousers, we might fish out something similar.”  
After some rummaging around, they ended up with two white shirts that fit both of them good enough, and two pairs of dark-green trousers, different tones, but with the same silhouettes. They stood before the mirror in Scott's compartment to admire the results.  
Scott frowned.  
«That's not even a uniform, that's just... clothes.»  
«Okay, well, it's not ideal, but at least we will look presentable. And they will see that we cared enough to actually dress for the occasion.»  
After some eye-rolling Scott agreed to wear the shirt and trousers. When the Capital was only an hour away, they all assembled in the dining car. Sandy didn't appear to notice anything, but Finstock gave them a long look and nodded his approval.  
They ate in silence, Sandy trying her best, but still failing to be supportive. Stiles couldn't concentrate on the conversation – his nervousness was growing as the Capital was drawing nearer.  
Finally, the train slowed down, and, creaking, stopped. It was a bright sunny day in the Capital – there were almost no people at the station, but Stiles spotted a few reporters, cameras at the ready, running after the train to be the first to witness the tributes exit.  
They were standing by the sliding glass doors, and suddenly Stiles was just too scared, and, not realizing it, he reached out for Scott's hand, feeling a small rush of both surprise and relief when Scott took it. He felt Sandy pat him on the back, and then the doors were sliding open, and, bracing himself, Stiles stepped out into the bright sunlight.


	9. Part 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, didn't work out so well, what with posting part 9 soon. My conditions are now far from great, and I really don't have much time for writing (plus, I'm currently struggling a bit with this particular work), but I do my best.

The linen undershirt is prickly and hot, and it takes a considerable effort for Derek not to squirm, trying to will it into a more fitting position. Isaac next to him looks equally uncomfortable. But it is indeed a tradition – they should wear stiff uniforms of their district on the arrival day. Isaac's, at least, looks like it is his size – Derek's turned out to be one size smaller than required, but they were already on their way then, and no arrangements could be made to fix that. As a result, he was extremely uncomfortable and looked untidy – which could not be said about Isaac – at least his looks were worth the suffering.  
He expected Hale to give them a final round of instructions, but it seemed that for the moment he considered his work done, and they had seen no more of him until the end of the journey.  
Capital welcomed them with applause, camera flashes, and questions screamed by various reporters. They did not, and were not expected to answer – Stanley rushed them through the crowd to a small bus-like vehicle that was meant to take them to their new lodgings.  
As it turned out, all tributes lived in one building – a giant skyscraper, which also housed the canteen and training center. Each District had an entire floor to themselves, floors assigned in accordance with District number. Thus, Derek, Isaac and their team were placed on the second floor. On their way Derek could see tributes from District One on the first floor, surrounded by journalists and looking extremely dissatisfied with the arrangements. He smirked – everyone was allowed on the first floor, because that's where the entries were to all the other facilities, including the press-conference rooms. Those tributes were going to have one hell of a time avoiding all the nosy guests they were going to get.  
A guard sitting in a small glass cubicle flashed them a look, shuffled around amidst piles of documents on his desk (knocking several over in the process, but treating the occurences with calm resignation of somebody who had long past abandoned all hope to tidy up the place), and furnished all of them with rectangular plastic cards.  
\- Access cards. Use on all doors and elevator. Elevator only goes to your assigned floor and first floor. Staircase for staff only. All floors above number twelve for staff only. Please proceed to your lodgings to receive further instructions, - the guard was firing sentences as if they were bullets, not caring to smile, or even look at them. Derek and Isaac exchanged glances.  
\- The atmosphere of celebration is wearing off already, as I see, - Isaac commented.  
\- Oh, you will get your portion of celebration, don't worry, - Hale cut him off irritably, - now off you go to the second floor. Might want to see what's in store for you before they put you on the Arena.  
The timetable was astoundingly tight – they were scheduled to be at the Opening ceremony that very evening, and their Beauty Experts, as they were called here in the Capital, were already on the way to get them ready. As Derek watched, new events popped up on the screen – being professionals, they were highly requested for inteviews. Some of the requests were granted. The timetable screen also showed events for their proprietor and mentor (in different colors), and common events, such as breakfast, dinner, and training hours. The training center was going to open the following day, and all tributes were expected to coordinate their personal training schedule with regards of other proceedings they were to be part of.  
Derek and Isaac contemplated the flashing multi-colored screen for a while. Hale and Stanley hadn't arrived yet.  
\- Funny they call it Games. As if it's an insult. As if they deny the importance of our deaths. As if they turn into some kind of joke just because they treat all this mess like a game, - Isaac said. He was not, apparently, expecting an answer, continuing to speak in a low, monotonous voice betraying no emotion, - Look at this thing. This schedule. Look at the bright colors. And the things written there – Opening ceremony, Get-to-know-you-Show, Beauty Experts, for fuck's sake. As if all this is a party. A cheap reality show. Despicable.  
\- We don' get much choice. Talk all you want, we're already here. If I were you, I'd be doing all I can to win.  
At first Isaac didn't answer, and Derek decided he had dropped the matter altogether, but it came, after a while, in the same hushed tone.  
\- Funny you should say that, after you told me you were going towin anyway.  
Derek was going to strike back at his words, but in that moment the doors crashed open and in bustled the Beauty Experts led by a courageously dressed woman with make-up that, if it was not meant to scare away enemies, was terrible. She went right for the two tributes, urging them to their feet.  
\- Up-up-up, my darlings, we have lots to do!  
Over his shoulder he Derek sees that Isaac is once again himself, rolling eyes at him theatrically. Then they are whisked away from each other.  
***  
The Opening ceremony for the viewers is hundreds of celebrities dressed their best for the occasion, illustrious political figures making their appearance, praising speeches, intriguing promises and impossible forecasts.  
For them, it's mainly waiting.  
The tributes this evening are only to be presented. They will do speaking at other times, on shows and during press-conferences, and show their skills during training and Evaluation. Today, they are to look good.  
Derek thinks they both look ridiculous.  
Their costumes were inspired by something gladiator-ish, but stylists of the Capital could not hold their love for gems and sparkling bits at bay, and so they end up with something that can, of course, be identified as a gladiator outfit (if scrutinized for several minutes), but to Derek it looks like a vulgar gold and silver dress. Headbands made of the same material do not improve the general impression, but at least he managed to avoid the horrifying make-up. Well, he couldn't be sure about the horrifying part, of course, but as soon as he found out that it was going to be done by the leading Beauty Expert, he refused to even give her a chance.  
Because of all the waiting, Derek has time to get a closer look at other tributes.  
Professionals from District One, Jackson and Lydia (yes, Lydia, that's her name), seem to have had not much more luck with their stylists – while the guy looks half-decent in his sky-blue suit with a dark gown underneath, the girl resembles a wedding cake, what with all the pink and frill and lace. Derek admires her willpower – not everyone would manage to look confident while wearing... that.  
The twins from District Three are dressed silmply, but a lot more stylishly than most. They wear matching slim-fit black knee-length dresses with dark green sleeves reaching down to their wrists, and silver necklaces.  
Isaac notices the direction of Derek's gaze and laugths softly.  
\- I'd rather wear that, - the comment comes unexpectedly, evoking a vivid mental image, and causes Derek to let out a very unbecoming giggle.  
Finally, the time comes for them to be presented to the public. Each pair of tributes is to mount a black chariot led by two horses, and circle the stage once.   
When they are let out, Derek is momentarily dizzy from the wave of sound – they are in a large circular place, with the stage in the center, and rows and rows and rows of spectators going up from it, seemingly, forever. Everybody is screming as they make their progress, and onstage some guy is calling out their names and district. Excitement rushes through Derek, and, before he knows it he is raising his clenched fist ina war-like gesture. He does not see that Isaac, after stealing him a quick glance, mimics it.  
But their parade is over almost as soon as it started. They are then led on a small tribune to view the rest of the tributes and, of course, witness the last speech – the speech of the President.  
Tributes whirl around in a flashy, multi-colored cloud, and, if it wasn't for the presenter, Derek would have lost track. But here's District Eleven, so soon it will be over.  
“Laidies and gentelmen, last, but not least, please welcome, tributes of Diiiiistrict TWELVE!” - the presenter yells, - “Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski!”  
And he sees them. They are dressed as gladiators, too, Derek realises, but there is no way of mistaking their costumes – breast-plates that are made to look like brass, dark colors, leather wristbands, light make-up, just enough to make you notice their eyes – which are gleaming, but not with excitement, but with something harsh, something like hunger.  
They don't smile or wave or demonstrate their power, like others – they stand stiffly on the chariot, looking straight ahead, faces set.  
But the crowd is going insane. Derek's welcome was nothing compared to this – people are screaming, stomping their legs and clapping – crowds are often compared to oceans, but this was fire. A giant, hungry fire.  
Maybe it was the deafening sound, or maybe the stirrer misled the horses, but, as Scott and Stles were finishing their circle, the chariot lurched once, twice, and the horses jerked suddenly to the left.  
Derek saw how, slowly, almost lazily the chariot heeled and started to fall over.  
The crowd gasped.  
Derek sprang forward.


End file.
